


the fact of his pulse

by procrastinatingbookworm



Series: Little Beast (Jonah Week 2020) [4]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: (within a consensual roleplay), Bloodplay, Genderplay, Knifeplay, M/M, Medical Kink, Misgendering, Queer Themes, Sexual Roleplay, Strap-Ons, Trans Jonah Magnus, Trans Jonathan Fanshawe, Trans Male Character, fun with personal identity versus the mask one wears, wound fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-17
Updated: 2020-06-17
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:28:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24766186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/procrastinatingbookworm/pseuds/procrastinatingbookworm
Summary: Jonah—or Mr. Magnus, he supposes, since they’re playing with identity—whimpers. He can feel blood trickling down both sides of his arm, pooling stickily where the curve of his arm meets the table.“You look much better already, Mr. Magnus.” Jonathan says, stepping away from the table. It’s Jonathan and not Dr. Fanshawe—the smile curling his mouth is too cruel. “Perhaps with the toxin diminished we can address the root of your problem.”
Relationships: Jonathan Fanshawe/Jonah Magnus
Series: Little Beast (Jonah Week 2020) [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1788130
Comments: 21
Kudos: 40
Collections: Jonah Magnus Week 2020





	the fact of his pulse

**Author's Note:**

> * A/N: Jonah and Jonathan are trans men fully aware of each other's identities, engaging in a BDSM scene. The "Misgendering" tag refers to consensual genderplay within the scene. Jonathan refers to Jonah as "Miss Magnus", then returns to calling him "Jonah" once the scene has ended.

“Jonah?” Jonathan asks.

“Don’t insult me by asking if I’m sure, Jonathan,” Jonah says, testing the leather straps on his wrists. He’s strapped to Jonathan’s exam table, shirtless, chest unbound, head turned to the side to watch Jonathan wipe old blood from his scalpel with a wet cloth. “Go on.”

Jonathan sighs softly, and his voice drops into a lower register. “Mr. Magnus, the illness that has befallen you is more serious than I expected. We will have to take drastic measures to drain the toxin from your blood.”

Jonah blinks for a moment to get into character, then struggles against the straps. “Wh—Dr. Fanshawe, surely there must be another way.”

“We have tried the other ways,” Jonathan says, with such a serious pull to his voice that Jonah feels a very real kick of fear. “Your sickness persists. We will have to bleed it out.”

It’s the collective pronoun that makes Jonah shudder, more so than the words. He will not be allowed to simply witness this—he must participate.

He barely feels the scalpel as it slides up the length of his arm, parting the skin from wrist to mid-elbow. 

It’s not a deep wound. Jonathan has no need to truly bleed him, or so Jonah hopes. The scalpel is sharp enough that the blood is running in rivulets from the wound before Jonah feels the pain.

By the time he does, the sharp breath he drags in cuts off in a mewl as Jonathan cuts his opposite arm in the same manner. Balanced. Smirke would be thrilled.

It hurts, in the stinging way a burn hurts, or a wasp sting. Jonah catches his breath in tiny, noisy gasps. He could keep himself quiet, but he knows Dr. Fanshawe wants to hear it.

No. Dr. Fanshawe couldn’t care less—that’s the point of his character. He is cold, brusque, compassionless. But Jonathan, behind the mask, will delight in it.

Jonah—or Mr. Magnus, he supposes, since they’re playing with identity—whimpers. He can feel blood trickling down both sides of his arm, pooling stickily where the curve of his arm meets the table.

“You look much better already, Mr. Magnus.” Jonathan says, stepping away from the table. It’s Jonathan and not Dr. Fanshawe—the smile curling his mouth is too cruel. “Perhaps with the toxin diminished we can address the root of your problem.”

“And what is that?” Jonah chokes out.

Dr. Fanshawe raises an eyebrow. “Hysteria, Mr. Magnus. Or should I say—”

Jonah jerks against the straps on the table. “Don’t, _Jonathan—_ ”

Jonathan pauses. He considers Jonah, his head tilted. “Miss, you’re just proving my point. You’re hysterical.”

 _Miss._ It makes Jonah’s stomach flip, nearly taking his arousal with it. He squeezes his eyes shut, feeling the pressure of the leather straps on his wrists and ankles, the burn of pain in his arms. 

If it gets to be too much, he can tap out, the same way he can when they wrestle or spar. His hands are bound, but free enough that he can give his three-tap signal if he so desires.

He doesn’t. He opens his eyes, staring up at Jonathan.

Jonathan watches him right back for a moment longer, then sets down the bloody scalpel and picks up a pair of wide-bladed shears. 

Jonah forces himself to keep his eyes open as Dr. Fanshawe cuts up each leg of his trousers, pushing the cloth aside, then gives his underwear the same treatment. Jonah tries not to whine.

“Perhaps you’ll be less demanding when you’ve been filled.”

Jonah expects his fingers, or one of the implements he attaches to his harness, but while Dr. Fanshawe does open the case that Jonah’s seen many times before, he doesn’t put on his harness.

He removes a few of the dildos from the case, examining each one. Lacquered mahogany wood, relatively small, with subtle ridges. Jonathan shoots Jonah an amused expression.

“Not nearly enough for you,” he says, putting it back.

The next is what looks like ivory, hollow and delicate-looking. Dr. Fanshawe puts it back without a word, and takes out the next. “This ought to do.”

The instrument Dr. Fanshawe has chosen is the biggest of the ones he keeps in his case, for medical uses. It’s glass, flared at the base, longer than the first dildo and thicker than the second.

Jonah can’t help but moan.

Dr. Fanshawe prepares the implement with oil from a bottle, until the glass is clouded and slippery.

“Shall we, Miss Magnus?” Jonathan asks, low and sweet. Jonah rolls his hips, searching for friction. Jonathan provides, pressing the tip of the dildo just above Jonah’s entrance, letting him grind against the glass for a moment, before he pushes it inside.

Jonah mewls, letting his voice slip to his higher register. Jonathan likes him like this—likes him allowing himself to be seen, peeled back, _known._

The glass slides deeper. Jonah clenches around it, thighs pressing together, brushing Jonathan’s hand.

“Easy,” Jonathan murmurs, or maybe Dr. Fanshawe does. Jonah isn’t sure what part Jonathan is playing. All he knows is the slide of glass, the press of leather restraints, the fading burn of wounds—

“Ow!” Jonah yelps, and he doesn’t even _mean_ for it to be high-pitched, it just comes out that way. “Ow, ow, _Jonathan_ —”

Jonathan pulls his fingers out of Jonah’s arm with a sound that makes Jonah’s stomach turn. “Just ensuring you’re well-bled, Jonah.”

“Just cut me again, if it’s so importa—ah, ah…”

He cuts himself off on a whimper, as Jonathan slides his fingernail _through_ the wound on Jonah’s right arm, following the path of the knife, parting the skin. It hurts more than Jonah thought a wound that simple could hurt—it makes him feel nauseous with how violatingly painful it is.

And then Jonathan does it on the left side, as well, both thumbs sliding back and forth as though across piano keys, and Jonah tenses, taut as a wire, caught between pain and disgust and arousal.

Right at Jonah’s wrists, Jonathan’s fingernails press in, and some great rush of agony and bliss whites out Jonah’s vision.

When he comes to, his legs are shaking, and Jonathan is massaging his wrists, away from the wounds, in delicate little motions, to return the feeling to Jonah’s hands. His feet receive the same treatment before he finds the energy to speak.

“Thank you, Dr. Fanshawe,” he croaks out. “I feel much improved.”

“The pleasure was all mine, Jonah,” Jonathan replies, unable to hide a smile.


End file.
